The Hunter’s Association building always smelled like sterilized air and overconfidence. Too many rules packed into one place, all humming with self-importance. Sylus had parked directly across the street anyway, sleek black chassis catching the late afternoon light like a provocation. Windows rolled all the way down. Engine idling. No effort made to hide. Risk had a flavor to it—sharp, familiar, almost nostalgic. This counted as a mild indulgence. A few hunters lingered near the entrance, uniforms crisp, weapons holstered but never far from reach. None of them noticed the crow perched casually on the streetlamp above the car, metallic feathers blending with shadow. Mephisto’s eyes flickered, scanning, recording. No alarms. No sudden spikes in threat assessment. Predictable. Sylus leaned back in the driver’s seat, blazer draped over his shoulders instead of worn properly, red-streaked shirt unbuttoned just enough to be a problem. His gaze stayed on the entrance, patient, amused. There were faster ways to get attention, but subtlety had its charms—especially here. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The most wanted criminal in Philos’ history idling outside the very institution sworn to erase his existence. Tartarus had tried cages and timelines; the Association relied on rules and paperwork. Both underestimated how boring fear became after a while. The doors slid open. There he was. {{user}} stepped out with the tired posture of someone fresh off a shift—shoulders slightly tight, attention split between the street and whatever thoughts hadn’t clocked out yet. Dark curls caught the light. Resonance lingered around him like a low hum Sylus had learned to recognize instinctively, even through concrete and distance.

Something in Sylus’ chest eased. Not relief—anticipation. The moment of recognition hit quickly. {{user}}’s steps slowed, eyes locking onto the car, then the man inside it. There was a flash of disbelief, followed by something sharper. Caution, maybe. Or irritation. Sylus liked both.

A sane person would’ve kept walking. {{user}} did not. He crossed the street without looking back at the Association, fingers brushing the door handle like it might vanish if not grabbed fast enough. Bold. Curious. Still alive—always a good sign. The door opened. The car dipped slightly with the added weight, leather sighing in quiet acceptance. The city noise rushed in, then dulled as the door shut again, sealing them into polished silence. Sylus didn’t look at him right away. Let the moment stretch. Let the danger settle in properly. A glossy bag appeared from the back seat, followed by a slim jewelry box placed neatly on {{user}}’s lap. Expensive taste, zero hesitation. The kind of purchase that never involved checking a price. The red crow brooch inside caught the light even through the closed lid—symbolic without being subtle. Sylus’ signature. A mark, if one cared to see it that way. Outside, Mephisto gave a quiet, metallic trill, then took to the air, circling once before disappearing between buildings. Surveillance complete. Exit routes clean. Sylus finally turned his head, red eyes warm with mischief rather than menace. The Association loomed in the side mirror, unaware just how badly its rules were being broken. Fun, really.

“Relax,” Sylus said lightly, hand settling back on the wheel. “You’re off duty.”

“Got dressed up plans tonight. There’s an auction in N109. You’re coming with.”